


So we both sing what we both know

by queenofchildren



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Country Music, Drama, F/M, Fake Relationship, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Nashville AU, enemies to lovers to friends to lovers (it's complicated)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9320384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: The "Angel of Nashville", the "Princess of Country-Pop", that's what they used to call her. After personal tragedy made her retire from the limelight, however, Clarke Griffin is on her way to becoming a burned-out child star, a has-been. But now, Clarke is ready to return to the stage: With a new band, a new sound, and a new lead guitarist who drives her crazy on stage and off - and helps her write the songs she's meant to write.





	1. Trouble is a guy with a guitar in the next bar

“Maybe a little less glitter?”

It's been two months since Clarke Griffin, once dubbed the princess of country-pop, announced that she's ready to come back from her early retirement. When she said it, over dinner with her mother and her manager who she's pretty sure is on the road to becoming her step-father, Abby hugged her tearfully and Marcus immediately started calling people about TV appearances and studio time and getting her old band together, and Clarke didn't even get a chance to finish the sentence the way she had initially wanted to: “... but I want to do things differently this time.”

Instead, she's been swept up in press meetings and photoshoots and rehearsals with the first band that was available on such short notice, and now she's sitting in make-up for a show on national television where she's supposed to perform to let the world know that she's back.

Clarke would have preferred to take some time to write and record a few new songs first and then return to the stage. But when she said as much to Marcus, he told her that she could do new songs anytime she wanted, but that they'd have to generate some interest first so the album would sell. Clarke thought to herself that her first three albums sold well enough to support them all for a few more decades, not to mention that money is not a thing her family will ever need to worry about anyway. Between her grandpa owning half of Nashville and her mother being generally mentioned in the same breath as Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn, the Griffins are not a family that ever needs to  _generate_  interest. But apparently, those are the rules of showbusiness, and Clarke is nothing but a small cog in the machine, even if she's a cog who sells out stadiums. Well, she used to be.

Now, she's trying to keep from trembling with anxiety while the stylist brushes glittery powder on her cheeks, not even stopping long enough to consider her suggestion. “But it makes your eyes pop so beautifully.”

“Besides,” Marcus chimes in from the sofa, “with this studio's shitty lighting rig, we'll have to use every trick or in the book to make you shine.”

"Oh don't worry," the make-up lady titters, "the _Angel of Nashville_ will shine exactly the way she's supposed to."

Clarke bites back a groan at the stupid title. She's always hated it, but since a prominent paper came out with a picture of her kneeling by her father's bloodied body and the title “Nashville's _Angel of Death_ ”, she has to actively fight back nausea everytime she hears the word. If she had a dollar for every time some hack writer compared her to an angel just because she's blonde and can sing, she could retire already. She wants people to  _listen_  to her, not look at her, and sometimes Clarke is tempted to slip the lighting guys on her shows a little extra money to turn off the spots completely, just for one song. Spending more time on hair and make-up than on getting warmed up before her shows was something that had increasingly annoyed her before her... sabbatical, and she'll be damned if she slips back into working like that. As soon as this show is over, things will change, and she will ban all glitter. But for now, she'll have to pick her battles.

“Alright, glitter me. But I want a new band, and I want to cast them myself.” So maybe she shouldn't have blurted it out right now, fighting to be heard over her stylist's blowdryer, but she's been thinking about this for weeks and there's never been a good moment. If she has to go sing on this horrible show, she wants to at least get something out of it. Maybe she'll still manage to come back on her own terms.

“Excuse me? I don't see what this has to do with your make-up...”

“Nothing. I've just been thinking about it. And I've been talking about it with the band too. Half of them have moved on to other gigs, and they're happy.”

Marcus' expression softens, a rare sight. “Alright, I'll get my feelers out, listen around if anyone good is free right now.”

“Maybe I'll go on the prowl myself – hit up a few open mic nights and the like. I wouldn't mind bringing in some fresh talent.”

Clarke says it casually, like it's a done deal, but she's never done anything like this, never shown so much initiative. To her relief, Marcus nods.

“That may be a good idea.” His phone starts buzzing and he gets up to take the call, but not before giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. “Any other big changes you'd like to make, I suggest we discuss them properly after the show, alright?”

Clarke gives him a grateful smile and breathes out a sigh of relief. That didn't go so badly. Maybe project Clarke 2.0 won't be a total disaster after all.

***

 

An hour later, Clarke regrets ever saying that she wants to return. Pretty much everything that could go wrong with standing on a sound stage and singing did go wrong: Clarke could barely hear her own output so she's sure she was horribly off-key, she actually missed her cue once or twice, and then she slipped on the polished stage-floor, turning the entire show into a cheesy slapstick skit. The media will have a field day with this, and just for a second, Clarke is tempted to give up on this whole comeback thing altogether. It's not like she needs the money, and she can still always write songs and play them for herself, with no one to judge her.

Clarke can't bear the thought. This is not who she is. She may not want to be the Angel of Nashville anymore, but she's not a quitter either.

So when Raven comes back from yelling at the sound crew, Clarke promptly gets to her feet and all but drags her friend out the studio's side entrance.

“Let's go drown my trainwreck of a career in Tequila.”

Raven and her have snuck out before, once the paparazzi gradually stopped camping out at her house and she could actually move freely again. Clarke still disguises herself when going out, with sunglasses, base caps and the occasional wig, so they stop by the studio's props room and bribe the intern currently doing inventory into letting them take a wig. The one they settle on was apparently part of a tacky “Indian” costume, a mockery of native hairstyles, and Clarke feels fully justified in taking it and making sure it never makes a TV appearance again. With the headband and feathers cut off, it just looks like a dark wig, and for nights like tonight, it's the perfect disguise.

But when they get to the bar Raven has picked out, it doesn't look like she'll need the wig much – the place is packed and very dimly lit, and everyone's attention is glued to the guy on stage anyway. Clarke doesn't know him, and since tonight is open mic night, she figures he's probably not with a label yet. But he is pretty good, with a deep, gravelly voice that turns soft when his heartfelt lyrics demand it and positively sinful when he apparently decides to seduce every single person in the bar.

Which he probably could, Clarke realizes when the crowd shifts and she can see him for the first time, all tousled dark curls and sinewy arms and hands so big they practically dwarf his acoustic guitar. The short-sleeved shirt stretching over his muscular chest is frayed around the edges in a way that looks genuinely well-worn rather than artificially vintage, and the complete lack of any kind of pseudo-cowboy ornaments only emphasises his attractiveness.

She likes his sound, Clarke decides, but she also envies him a little: Sitting here on a tiny stage in a tiny bar, with his old shirt and even older guitar, with no cameras, no blinding lights, no trace of glitter to distract from what he has to say.

But before she can let the thought drag her down once more, Raven appears at their small table by the back with two tequilas and two mixed drinks that she'd rather not know any details about, and Clarke pushes all thoughts of standing on stages from her mind.

It's only much later, when Raven drags her to the bar to flirt with the barkeeper, that she even thinks of the guy on stage again: He sidles up right next to her on the bar somewhere between her second and third shot of tequila.

It may be the alcohol or the fact that none of the people who played after him were anywhere near as talented, but Clarke is suddenly overcome with the urge to compliment the guy. For a moment, she debates if she should really do this, because she's trying to fly under the radar tonight and if there's one thing that will blow her cover it's an excited newcomer freaking out because Clarke Griffin told them she liked their stuff. But she hates the thought of not complimenting a fellow musician's art, thereby proving everyone right who thinks she's a conceited princess.

So she turns towards him and says: “I heard you playing. You're pretty good.”

He looks at her for a second, his eyes widening slightly so she knows he has recognized her and steels herself for the usual reaction: Flustered gratitude, stammering, and, if he's one of the more daring ones, an inquiry if she has an open spot on her band or time to listen to his demo-tape. To her surprise, none of that happens. Instead, he lets his eyes rake over her, taking her in so thoroughly from her head to her toes that she fights the urge to check if her clothes have spontaneously burned off her body.

“You're pretty hot.”

“Wow, really? I'll have to revise my initial statement to add that you're also pretty rude.”

“Why? You were complimenting me. I thought I'd return the favour.”

“I wasn't just complimenting you...” Clarke doesn't know what she finds more annoying – his smug smirk or the way his dark gaze is already getting her flustered. Annoyingly, he's even more attractive up close than he was on the small stage. “I mean, I was, but I was complimenting you on your music, not  _hitting_  on you. Most people would just be happy to get some input from a fellow musician, say thanks and leave it at that. Or buy the fellow musician a beer.”

He laughs out loud at that, short and derisive. “I'm pretty sure you can buy your own beer, Princess. Or your own brewery, if you feel like it.”

“So you know who I am.”

“Who doesn't? Look, don't take this the wrong way, it was very nice of you to compliment my playing, but since your music isn't quite up my alley, it's really not that meaningful. Now, if someone like, say, Abby Griffin tells you you're good,  _that's_  something to be proud of.”

Clarke feels as if he had slapped her. It's not the first time she's been unfavourably compared to her mother, but she's already half-drunk and that always makes her extra-sensitive. She is done with this asshole, no matter how much his voice made pleasant shivers run down her spine when he was singing.

“You know what, fuck you. All I wanted to do was say something nice to someone whose music I really appreciated. I don't need this.”

She's about to turn and walk away from him, when he stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Alright, I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I think you could be even better than your mother, if you set your mind to it.”

“You're unbelievable.” She really hopes her voice doesn't betray how much his words have unsettled her. How he managed to say the very thing she's been thinking lately: She could be better. Maybe not than her mom. But better than the fucking _Angel of Nashville_ , at any rate.

He flashes her a cocky grin, apparently unaware of her inner turmoil. “But you liked my songs. Maybe you should listen to me. You know, as a fellow musician.”

“Alright then, please tell me how I can become better than multiple platinum.”

He scoffs, but just as she thinks he'll back down from her challenge, he takes her arm and pulls her over to an empty table by the wall, one in the darkest, coziest corner of the bar where it's marginally quieter. Clarke sets her drink down on the high table, waiting for him to start lecturing her on her technique or how she's too girly and cute to write like the great songwriters or how her mother never allowed anyone to steal her spotlight the way Clarke does with her inexplicable love for duets.

Instead, he just looks at her, studying her intently for an uncomfortably long time.

“Well? I thought I was going to learn something.”

“Just enjoying the opportunity to get a good look at you without all the glitter for once.”

Well, at least she's not the only one who hates the glitter. Clarke sometimes feels like she'll never be able to scrub off all the glittery powder her stylists dump on her. She'll probably still sparkle like a disco ball when they put her in a casket.

“Alright, here's the deal: You and I know your voice is top notch, and it's only gotten better, if this afternoon was any indication.”

She still can't believe this guy. He can't be more than five or six years older than her, but he acts like a showbiz veteran.

“And that's exactly why your stint on that ridiculous show was so terrible.” Great, Clarke thinks, so everyone and their mother has apparently watched her make an ass of herself on television. “Your voice has matured, but you're still singing your old songs. But you're not the same person who wrote those songs when you were what, fifteen? And people notice. Maybe they still sing along to your old hits, but when  _you_  sing them now, people can't help but feel like you're lying to them. Like you're not saying what you're really thinking.”

Clarke has to remind herself to keep breathing, because as smug and rude as he is, he's spot-on about  _everything_. He's saying the exact same thing she's been trying to explain to Marcus and her mother, only he's finding better words.

“I mean, come on, you've been through so much, and it's all been out there in the open – the stalker, your father's accident.... You can't possibly tell me that after all that, all you're thinking of is if some guy's going to call you back.”

Clarke sucks in a sharp breath at his casual summary of the shit-show that has been the last few years of her life, but she does not immediately shut down the topic of her father as she usually would.

“You know, for someone who doesn't like my music, you sure as hell know a lot about my life.”

He shrugs. “You're important here. Your mother and your manager practically run this town, and every label tries to break out their own copy of you. I'd be stupid not to at least keep up. Besides, my sister's a big fan.”

“Fair enough. Now, are you going to tell me how to stop being a crappy musician too? Or will you leave it at that?”

“Hey, I never said you're a crappy musician. I told you, technically, you're more than good. But I just can't find the soul under all that glitter.” He's leaning closer to her across the table, his eyes holding her in place as if he'd hypnotized her. “Tell me, Clarke Griffin – who are you? What moves you? What do you want to tell the world? I'm not hearing any of that in your music. But that's what I want to know about. And I have a feeling you have a lot to say, if you take off whatever muzzle they've put on you.”

“Don't be overdramatic. No one's put a muzzle on me.”

“Then why are you so afraid to show the world what you really feel?”

“Because no one wants to hear a singer whine about their hurt feelings.”

“Are you kidding me? That's all they want to hear. Come on, country music is like ninety percent pain and heartbreak, you don't think you have something to contribute there?” He shrugs. “Then again, maybe you're just a shitty songwriter.”

“Well, maybe you're a terrible person, have you ever thought of that?” She feels bad the moment the words leave her mouth, because Clarke is not a mean person and she sure as hell doesn't stoop to such lows. But something in this guy's stupid smirk and better-than-you-attitude just makes her see red.

For a moment, he looks dumbstruck, and Clarke wonders if she should apologize. She doesn't want to, but even an ass like him shouldn't be called a terrible person. The decision is taken off her when, after a moment of silence, he throws back his head and laughs.

“Just for that, I  _am_  buying you a beer. Stay put.”

Clarke has no idea why, but she actually obeys and stays perched on the bar stool while he makes his way to the bar. In the few minutes she's known the guy, she's been tempted to slap him at least three times. She should just get up, find Raven, and get the hell out of here. But somehow, she doesn't. It may have something to do with the fact that his commanding tone sends a shiver down her spine, or that the sight of him walking away reveals broad shoulders and a rather nice ass. But mostly, she thinks, it's the fact that somehow, after weeks of trying to figure out why her music is no longer working for her, this cocky guitar-strumming nobody just confirmed what she's been suspecting for a while now.

He's figured her out, it seems. It's only fair that she gets to learn some of his secrets in return.

When he sets down two pints of beer on their table, she doesn't give him a chance to say anything.

“You haven't even told me your name yet.”

“It's Bellamy.”

He lifts his glass at the words to clink it against hers and they both take a sip before she continues with her fact-finding mission.

“So, Bellamy, how did you get into music?”

“I've always been into music – my mom taught me to play, she was great. But she never got to to try and take a shot at playing professionally. She was a single mom, raising me and my sister alone, and she always worked two jobs, sometimes three, to make sure we were well provided for. She would've been great, if she'd had the chance. But I guess she didn't want to impose the struggling musician-lifestyle on us. She wanted us to have something like a normal childhood.”

Clarke is struck by this parallel in their biography, this figure of a mother who inspired them, passed on their love of music. Except her mother got lucky, got discovered, and married the owner of her label, making her instantly richer than any of her critically acclaimed but rather complex albums would have. She had a wealthy family to support her, a husband to raise her daughter while she became a household name.

Bellamy's soft chuckle drags her out of her thoughts. “The funny thing is, both my sister and I became musicians after all, so there's nothing particularly stable about our current lifestyle. My sister's just scraping by with shitty bartending jobs, and I'm still doing construction work during the day.”

Clarke isn't sure what to reply to this – she's never had to spend a day in her life waitressing or cleaning or any of the other badly paid jobs people who aren't born into her enchanted life have to plod through. She wonders if it's an attack on her, but he looks relaxed and friendly.

“But you're holding out for your shot?”

He laughs, and Clarke feels stupid. Of course he is. Everyone with his talent would, and should, want to play professionally. But it's not just that he's talented – he's hungry, eager, yearning to prove to himself and the world that he has what it takes.

“Like pretty much everyone else in this town.” His short laugh isn't quite enough to chase the flash of bitterness from his eyes.

“You're better than pretty much everyone else though.”

“Look at you, trying to make me feel better.”

Clarke wants to protest, to tell him that she really means it. But he seems to be done with the topic, because he holds out his hand and looks at her expectantly.

“Wanna dance?”

And she does.

So they dance, and then participate in some ridiculous drinking game with rules so intricate and difficult that it takes ages for anyone to take a shot ever because of all the arguing about rules, and Bellamy keeps smiling at her and making sure she balances the alcohol out with some water every once in a while and protectively shielding her with his body when some drunk bar patrons get a little rowdy close by, and Clarke just all-around has the time of her life.

They even participate in a spontaneous dance-off (and lose spectacularly), and once it's over, the crowd at the bar is starting to thin but Clarke is nowhere near done. So she beams at her new companion enthusiastically and yells over the noise:

“That was brilliant! What do we do now?”

He looks at her for a moment, studying her with his head cocked to the side, before his face splits into a wide grin and he spreads out his arms.

“Whatever the hell we want.”

Clarke ponders this for a moment, and, well, there's only one thing she could possibly want right now, she realizes with a look at his twinkling eyes, at the laugh lines around them and the way his smile isn't just a curve of lips and flash of teeth but something that lights up his entire face. It's a sight so beautiful it makes her breathless, and in this moment, it's all for her.

So before she can actually think about it, Clarke surges forward and kisses him.

It's a little awkward, because she must have miscalculated the distance between them in her drunken state and propelled herself forward with too much force, smashing into him and painfully crushing her upper lip between her teeth and his. But she's not going to let that stop her, not when she has made this kind of spur-of-the-moment impulsive decision for once in her life. Besides, before she can regret it, Bellamy catches up with what's happening and closes his arms around her, pulling them back upright before her momentum can cause them to topple over. And then he kisses her back, and it quickly becomes quite clear that either he's really good at rolling with impulsive decisions, or he's been thinking about this too.

Clarke has just enough of her sense of self-preservation and ingrained anti-paparazzi-instincts left to drag him towards the back exit and into the alley behind the bar.

The moment they're outside, he yanks off the stupid wig, freeing the hair she stuffed under it. Clarke sighs with relief at being rid of the itchy thing, the sound turning into a moan when he softly runs his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. His lips travel to her neck, the caress making her lips buckle and her breath get stuck, and that's when Clarke makes a decision.

"How far is it to your place?"

He draws back, looking at her with an expression that is half surprise, half challenge.

"Why? You looking for a place to crash?"

"Not exactly," Clarke shoots him what she hopes is a seductive smile, her voice matching the challenge in his, then curls her hand around the back of his neck to pull him down and kiss him again. 

Sadly, she doesn't get to enjoy the moment for a long time before he breaks away again to look at her searchingly.

“So, what is this? Some kind of good girl gone bad thing? Child star acting out? A complete meltdown?”

“Call it artistic experimentation.”

He lets go of her and takes a small step back to study her. “How much have you had to drink?”

“A lot. But not so much that I can't be sure what I want. And what I want is this.”

His little nod, a silent acceptance of her decision, is a refreshing change from her usual life, where everyone and their mother is trying to tell her what to do. Bellamy trusts her to make her own decision. 

"Yeah, I live close by."

With that, he takes her hand and leads her out of the alley, stopping along with her when she pauses to check that there are no paparazzi camped out before the bar. 

But the road is empty, and Bellamy really does live just a few streets over. 

Clarke just remembers to send Raven a quick text to tell her where she went and that she's fine (including such safety precautions as Bellamy's address and the code word she uses to signal that it really is her and her phone hasn't been hacked or stolen). Then she drops her phone and jacket in Bellamy's narrow hallway and devotes all her attention to him. 

And just in time too, because Bellamy's been planting breathy kisses to her neck that threaten to make her knees buckle, and she determinedly steers him to the bedroom she spotted through an open door. Bellamy lets her, his dedication not wavering for even a moment. 

At least until Clarke pulls him down on the bed with her, at which point he draws back once more to look at her, endearingly serious.

“I'm sorry I was being rude before. You just caught me at a bad moment.” He doesn't sound like he wants to elaborate on that, so she doesn't ask him to, but she's oddly moved by the fact that he wanted to take the time to get this out of the way before anything else happens. It shows more respect than she would have thought him capable of, and she smiles benevolently.

“That's alright. You've almost made up for it.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah, I think I'll need just a little bit more of your devoted attention before I...” Her words end on a strangled moan when he lets his hands trail down her side to apologize some more, and she quickly helps his cause by tearing her shirt over her head. Bellamy smiles, no doubt amused by her eagerness. But he's not exactly protesting, and she can tell he's just as eager when he settles in between her legs. He writes his apology on her body with his lips and hands until she sees stars and thinks that he is definitely forgiven for being rude, and before long, Clarke has forgotten all about glitter and stupid TV gigs and the _Angel of Nashville_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about country music unless I've seen it on the show Nashville, just so you know. But I've been mulling over this story for a year now, and I had to finally start posting it.


	2. Now the early morning sun is burning holes right through the mask I've worn all night

Clarke wakes up with a stiff neck, a fuzzy mouth, and a sleeping man next to her. To her credit, this doesn't shock her. She remembers very well what led to this point – a little too well, perhaps, as she lets her eyes travel down the length of her new acquaintance and feels her cheeks heat up. At the very least, it seems the risk of going home with a stranger paid off.

The thought makes her smugly energetic, and Clarke clambers out of Bellamy's low bed with a distinct lack of grace but a satisfied smile on her face.

She quickly grabs a shirt hanging from the back of a nearby chair and slips it on before leaving the room as quietly as possible. It feels like sneaking out, like the beginning of a walk of shame, and maybe that's exactly what she should do right now before he can decide that this will be his fifteen minutes of fame and call the paparazzi – she's known plenty of famous people who refrain from casual hook-ups with “civilians” for this very reason, and he's hungry and struggling enough to try anything to get discovered. But she doesn't think he would do something like that, and it's not just because she wants to believe someone this beautiful couldn't possibly be so conniving. He may be a lot of things, rude and arrogant among them, but she can't say that he isn't honest. For whatever reason, she trusts him.

Clarke locates the bathroom: small, clean, and equipped with a new two-pack of cheap toothbrushes that makes her wonder how often he brings home women from bars – judging by last night's performance, she'd take a guess at “very often”. She helps herself to one of the toothbrushes and a quick shower, then heads to the kitchen and rummages around until she finds some coffee. It feels a little intrusive to be snooping around his apartment, but she's too awake and giddy to go back to bed and too comfortable here to leave.

With a mug of steaming coffee, she heads to the last room in the apartment, a living-room that more closely resembles a much smaller version of her own rehearsal room. There's a big, comfy armchair and a TV that is gathering dust, but most of the small space is taken up by two guitars, notebooks, music sheets and various other musical implements that only add to Clarke's sense of feeling at home here. She curls up in the armchair and picks up one of the guitars, plucking a few experimental notes and appreciating its sound. It's a good guitar, and fairly new, unlike the second guitar sitting on a stand next to the armchair: an old, beat-up thing which she's sure has enough history to make it inappropriate for her to use.

Mentally retracing the wild night that brought her here, Clarke starts absentmindedly strumming the guitar, her fingers forming chords almost on their own until the notes blend together into a melody, light and quick, with a hint of the sharp sting of the tequila they had last night which undoubtedly contributed to the night's events.

Not that Clarke regrets any of them. She doesn't feel hungover in the slightest, and as much as she thinks she should, she does not feel like she did anything at all inappropriate. She can practically hear all the voices that would claim otherwise though: Outraged tabloid headlines, the pearl-clutching mothers of her teenage fans, Marcus' worried reminder that she's a role model for young girls – and of course, the usual Nashville gossip about angels and sins.

And for all that she's always been a good girl, always worried about the opinions of people who shouldn't matter but who do, right now Clarke finds that she doesn't care. She feels alive, like she's finally doing exactly what a girl – a _woman!_ – her age should be doing: Having fun. And boy did she have fun! She recalls Bellamy's smile, smug and teasing at first, bright and open later, sweet and intimate when he kissed her one last time before they both fell asleep.

“ _You've got a smile like trouble and skin like sunshine...”_ Clarke has been humming along as she played, and now the words to go with the tune come naturally, only halting occasionally when rhythm and meter don't quite match up and she has to alter a few syllables until words and music blend together seamlessly. The world falls away until nothing exists except for her and Bellamy's guitar, the sound warm and dark like him, and Clarke goes through several lines about smiles and tequila and dancing before it occurs to her that she should get this down before she forgets it again. Thankfully, she just dropped her jacket in the hallway last night, so she doesn't have to go back into the bedroom and risk disturbing Bellamy to get her phone.

With the recording app on, Clarke settles back into the armchair and repeats what she's come up with so far. When she runs out of lyrics, she only needs to go back to last night's memories, so fresh she can practically still feel every touch, and the words start flowing again. It's been years since she last wrote anything, but the feeling still manages to carry her away like it did since she first picked up a guitar and sang along to it.

“ _Boy you look like you've got questions and I'm sure I've got some answers / I've got you on my mind and nothing but time / so ask me....”_

Clarke doesn't know how long she stays there, notes and words jumbling out of her head, but when Bellamy finds her, she's so engrossed that she doesn't even hear him. It is only once she has belted out the last few notes, ending on an exuberant crescendo, and stopped the recording that he speaks up, almost causing her to drop her phone in fright.

“You writing a song?”

She turns her head to see him standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but his boxers and a thoughtful expression, and her stomach clenches at the sight. It's as if, in the short time since she left him sleeping in bed, she forgot how insanely beautiful he is. She feels a blush creeping onto her cheeks and hastens to reply, to focus on the innocent topic of music instead of getting distracted by the sight of his hip bones jutting out above the waistband of his boxers, or the fact that somehow his hair has managed to get even messier than it was last night.

“Yes. I just had this little snippet of a melody pop into my head, and I had to get it down as soon as possible. I hope you don't mind that I took your guitar...”

“That depends... how much do I get when the song turns into a hit?” He grins and walks around the armchair, plopping on the floor before her, and Clarke prays he won't bring up the fact that she basically wrote a song about him, as if their one fun night had made her fall for him already.

“I'm not sure it will. I'm not exactly a hot commodity right now.”

“From what I've heard just now, I'm pretty sure it'll be huge. It sounds like a fun song – perfect for a comeback.”

Clarke can't quite keep from feeling a little suspicious. He sounds earnest but, well, he has not held back on his disregard for her music so far. He seems to notice her insecurity.

“I may have been a little bit harsh last night, but like I said – I think you're a good musician, even if I'm not crazy about all of your old songs.”

He sounds genuine, and since Clarke has already decided to trust him, she figures she might as well believe him on this. Not knowing exactly what to say, she only nods. He doesn't seem to expect more of her, because he's just looking at her, studying her until she feels goosebumps breaking out on her skin from the sheer intensity of it.

“You know, this is a really good look for you – sitting in my living-room, writing songs... wearing my shirt... Feel free to come here whenever the muse visits you again.”

Clarke laughs. And because she finally, finally wrote a song again and he looks so good her throat goes dry, she pulls him up towards her and kisses him until her lungs run out of air.

After a long, sensuous kiss, Bellamy pulls away and sits up in his knees, looking up at her with a mischievous expression. And before she can even wonder what he's planning, he puts his hands on her knees and gently pushes apart her legs, his palms slowly sliding along her bare skin. Heart hammering in her chest, Clarke leans back and slides down in the chair so that she's perched on the edge of the seat while she takes in the sight of him, looking like he's getting ready to worship her. When his hands disappear under the hem of the shirt and find nothing underneath, his eyes widen.

His smirk is the last thing she sees before his lips descend on her, and she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back in bliss.

 

***

They crawl back into bed again at some point, but Clarke is too wired to fall asleep again.

“You know, I'd have a few suggestions for you too. If you're willing to listen.”

“Sure, but you'll have to put something on or I won't be listening to a single word.”

After a look around, Clarke spots the shirt of his she was wearing before (and cannot remember taking off in the first place) lying a few feet from the bed. She'll have to locate her own clothes eventually, but for now, Clarke takes great pleasure in prancing over to the discarded shirt, swinging her hips and giving him a pouty look over her shoulder before bending over to pick up the shirt. It takes them a while to get around to actually talking about music after that, but eventually, Clarke tells him all the things she remembers wanting to point out when she listened to him play last night.

And for all his cockiness, now Bellamy listens, getting up at one point to get a pen and piece of paper and take notes. Clarke hasn't felt this appreciated as a musician in a long time, she suddenly notices, and between that and the excellent view of his very cute ass while he rummages around on his messy desk, she suddenly feels a rush of fondness for this almost-stranger, with his bewitching smile and his loud opinions and his hands that are so big she has no idea how he even manages to properly grip a chord. (Not that he doesn't know what to do with them when it comes to... other things.)

Bellamy returns to the bed and sits down to jot down the pointers she gives him, but as soon as he's done and looks up at her again, Clarke takes the notepad out of his hand and straddles his lap with a seductive grin of her own, feeling confident and sexy and more than ready for a third round.

By the time she leaves his apartment, once more wearing one of Bellamy's shirts because she actually managed to rip hers in her eagerness last night, it's way past noon.

 

***

After her favourite limo driver, the quiet, discreet Monroe has brought her home, Clarke spends the afternoon in a dreamy daze. She has a very late breakfast of fresh croissants and some of the freshly-cut fruit her mother always keeps in the fridge, then does a few laps in the pool before she takes her guitar and settles in her favourite spot, a comfy hammock in a secluded corner of the garden.

Bellamy's words last night keep echoing in her mind: “I can't find the soul under all that glitter.” But there is a soul there, small and trembling but eager to get out, and it knows this: That life is more than pink glitter and cotton-candy-sweet crushes; sometimes it's cold asphalt and blood and the neon lights of a hospital.

And as brutal as his words were, Bellamy is right: She has been through a lot of shit lately, but she's well aware that many others have been through worse. So why not draw on that and write songs that will allow people a chance to confront their own demons, to find some kind of comfort and salvation?

Taking a deep breath and bracing herself, Clarke opens the part of her mind where her Dad resides, the part that is normally kept tightly locked. She can't quite bring herself to recall the night of his death yet, but she allows a few of her favourite memories of him to resurface, a little faded in colour but still vivid enough to trigger the familiar sharp pain within her. It has been dulled over the years, but she still remembers what she felt like the first weeks after it happened, the way her body and mind were numb to anything but pain.

When she returns to the present, Clarke has pinpointed the sensation most people should be able to relate to: The heavy ache of missing someone, of not knowing what to do or how to be without them; the way time slows down when life has condemned you to live without someone you love very deeply, and it is this feeling of powerlessness, of time turning into a viscuous, stifling mass, that she recalls now as she plucks a few tentative chords, hums a few notes, sings a few lines that grow into more and more.

“ _Look to the clock on the wall_ / _hands hardly moving at all_ / _I can't stand the state that I'm in_ / _sometimes it feels like the walls closing in...“_

When her mother finds her an indefinite amount of time later, Clarke realizes she's crying, tears running down her face as she plays, and she has to quickly assure her scared mother that she's okay, that nothing happened – at least, nothing _bad_.

“I'm writing again.”

“I heard that.” Abby sits down next to her. “What did you write about?”

“Dad.”

Her mother doesn't reply anything to that, and Clarke is suddenly afraid that she'll hate the song, that she'll be hurt or offended by the idea of turning her husband's death into a public commodity. But Clarke tamps down those fears and starts playing the introductory chords. If she can't even bring herself to play the song to her mom, how is she going to record and perform it for millions of people?

When she's finished, they both sit in silence for a moment before Clarke dares to look at her mother, expecting to see her angry. But while there may be tears on Abby's face, there's also a small smile there, and then she puts her arm around Clarke's shoulder and pulls her close.

“I still miss him too. Every day.”

And then Clarke really starts bawling, clinging on to her mother as she cries into her immaculate white shirt. But in contrast to the months she spent crying after her Dad's death, this time there's hope underneath her grief - a feeling that life really can go on.

 

***

By the time Clarke stops crying and lets go of her mother to let her leave for an important appointment, it's already late in the afternoon and she's practically famished. But just as she is comfortably settled on the sofa with a sandwich, Marcus strides in and slams his tablet down on the table. She's about to ask what got into him when she sees the website he has pulled up: A notorious gossip site with a picture of her front and center. This in and of itself is nothing unusual – back when she was still a hot topic, she used to be targeted by that blog at least once a week. But what does make her choke on the orange juice she had just been drinking is the fact that the picture is obviously from this morning: a snapshot of her getting out of the limo in all her post-one-night-stand glory, complete with mussed hair, smudged make-up and Bellamy's shirt.

“Care to explain?” Marcus sounds less than amused.

“I was out celebrating with Raven.”

“So that's Raven's oversized shirt you are wearing to sneak back inside at noon, yes?”

“No, that belongs to the guy I hooked up with.” Her manager looks shocked at the blunt words, and Clarke refrains from rolling her eyes. “You forget that I'm not a child anymore, Marcus, and most definitely not yours.”

That may be a little harsh, because whatever's been going on between him and her mother lately, Clarke can't say that Marcus has ever been anything but good to her. But her point still stands: She's an adult. If she wants to have casual sex, she damn well will.

“You still have a reputation to uphold. And this...” he jabs at the photo, leaving a fingerprint on the tablet's shiny surface, “does not say _Angel of Nashville_. This says... well, I don't think I have to spell it out.”

Just then, Raven, who drops by most days, comes strolling in in a very welcome display of perfect timing. Moving close to greet Clarke with a hug, she peers at the tablet and laughs out loud.

“Well, somebody got home late! At least the picture's flattering, all things considered. You look like you had a _great_ night.” Raven waggles her eyebrows suggestively and plops down on the sofa next to her.

And then, maybe because Raven is sitting between her and Marcus like a fierce human shield, or maybe because she still has Bellamy's shirt stashed in her room and it still smells like him, like coffee and guitar strings and laughter, Clarke finally finds the courage to say what she's wanted to say for months.

“Marcus, I promise, this is not going to be a regular occurrence. I haven't done the whole sex and drugs and rock'n'roll thing so far, I'm not going to start now. I just needed to get out and have some fun, which I believe I am entitled to.” And since she's on a roll now and feeling empowered because Raven is next to her and she wrote two songs in the last twenty-four hours that are better than anything she attempted over the past year, and because she _does_ look good in the picture with her wild hair and Bellamy's shirt, Clarke blurts out the thing she's been meaning to say for weeks now: ”I'm not the little teen princess anymore. I won't play her music, and I won't wear her clothes. The _Angel of Nashville_ is dead.”

Marcus sits down in the armchair opposite her, looking stunned for a moment after her admittedly rather dramatic declaration. But he catches himself relatively well and asks calmly:

“So who's taking up her place?”

“Me. I've already started working on new songs.”

Pulling out her phone, she pulls up the recording she made this morning, the first finished version of her new song that sounds exactly like Bellamy's kisses tasted, and presses play.

To his credit, Marcus just listens, calmly and intently. She may not have agreed with all of his plans and decisions lately, but she still, Clarke realizes, cares a lot about his opinion. Since her parents decided she needed a manager she wasn't related to, Marcus has been with her from day one, has seen every stage of her career, and has played no small part in her success. Clarke watches his face for any sort of reaction, but his features remain impassive, not giving her the slightest hint what he's thinking until the recording ends and he finally speaks.

“That's certainly... grown up.”

“That only makes sense, since, you know, I actually am a grown-up.”

“It's cute. And sexy.” Raven jabs her in the side goodnaturedly.

Marcus looks a little skeptical, and Clarke knows exactly what he's thinking: Teenagers are where the money is. Teenagers are the ones buying her CDs and concert tickets and tour shirts and other merchandise, like her perfume and the clothing line she launched together with a few other starlets.

“Her fans will like it, even if it is different. I mean, those who grew up with her have already started to abandon ship, to move on to hipper, sexier singers. This might bring them back.” Clarke could hug Raven right now for standing up so loyally for her.

Marcus sighs. “Alright. We'll try the new, grown-up you. But no Playboy shoots or any of that objectifying shit.”

And now Clarke gets up to give her manager a hug, because he finally _gets_ it. Not for the first time, Clarke appreciates what she has in him – someone who won't exploit her like she's seen happen to so many other teen stars. It may be his job to make sure that she sells records and tickets, but he would never sell _her_ out for it.

“I'm serious about this, Marcus, and I promise I won't mess this up. I'm already working on a second new song.”

Marcus doesn't get to reply because his phone rings and he steps outside to take it, but Raven is studying Clarke with a bemused expression.

“Two songs in one day? What's got you so inspired then? Anything... special happen last night?”

And because Raven is her best friend Clarke tells her everything as quickly as possible before Marcus can return: Of Bellamy's rude remarks and helpful insights, of the dancing and the smiling and going back to his place, of having sex and falling asleep in a tangle of tired limbs, of waking up filled to the brink with energy and a song that's just clamouring to come out, of talking and laughing and more sex and the fact that she hasn't felt this alive in ages.

Raven is suitably impressed and touchingly happy for her, but when she asks if she got Bellamy's number, Clarke falters – somehow, she simply forgot.

Of course, she can always go back to the bar and ask the guy who organizes their open mic night for his contact info, or just show up at his place. But something makes her balk at the idea, something that is all too easy to identify as fear.

Because the thing is, their night was perfect – _h_ _e_ was perfect. And if she calls him, she's afraid that the magic of that night may fizzle out and Bellamy may turn out just to be a pretty ordinary, slightly cocky guy who can play guitar and knows how to kiss (and other things), and the thought scares her. She knows it's pathetic, but she'd rather have the memory of a perfect guy than the reality of an imperfect one. At least a memory can't hurt her.

She doesn't have time to explain this to Raven before Marcus reappears and the topic quickly changes from last night's adventures to the ones lying ahead of her. Now that Clarke has finally found her inspiration to write again, Marcus is finally on board with making her new album a priority, and the first step to that is finding a new band. Luckily, he's already heard back from his contacts since yesterday, and has in fact lined up some musicians to audition this same afternoon. She may not be the biggest act in town anymore, but when Clarke Griffin calls, people still answer.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about the process of songwriting. I assume there's magic involved. But of the songs Clarke writes in this chapter, only one of them actually exists, and one, i.e. the lines Clarke comes up with at Bellamy's apartment, was actually "written" by me. The quotes for her second song, however, are taken from Brandi Carliles "What can I say", which is very beautiful and sad. (I'm so sorry, but Jake doesn't make it in this story.) Oh, and the chapter title is from Jack Savoretti's "Take me Home".  
> I'm working on a playlist to go with this fic, because it's obviously heavily influenced by music. I'm just not sure which platform to use - youtube? 8tracks? idk.  
> Also, I wonder if I need to up the rating for this chapter.  
> Next chapter: Getting the band together!


	3. Got a whole lot more than a little bit left

Casting her own band is both terribly exciting and teeth-grindingly frustrating, Clarke finds. It takes almost a week until they've sat through all the auditions, and the level of talent is uneven, to say the least. Clarke tries to stick to her resolution to look around herself – attending open mic nights and artist showcases, and checking out the youtube-videos of musicians who've posted their flyers all over town. A few of those even pay off, even if they end up not being a perfect fit, but she still relies heavily on Marcus' recommendations, and the fact that he doesn't gloat about this is just one more reason why she loves her manager.

Finding someone who doesn't just meet her musical standards but clicks with her on a personal level too – well, that turns out to be a lot more challenging than she thought. For every bassist like Monty, whom she hires on the spot, there are ten hopeful guitarists who think that the position of “lead guitarist” means getting to call the shots and constantly play over her. She's not entirely sure the guy she settles on for lead guitar, floppy-haired, puppy-eyed Finn, is all that different from that blend of guitarist – his heavy-duty flirting is clearly intended to butter her up. But at least, he doesn't outright preach at her about the difficulties of playing lead when she's been playing guitars since her chubby little fingers could grip the chords. Plus, the guy she actually intended for lead guitar, the almost intimidatingly unflappable Nathan, turns out to work together perfectly with Monty, and that's exactly the kind of magic she wants to see happening for her fresh start.

Finn isn't the only one she has doubts about. There's also Octavia, the drummer who far surpasses every other candidate in terms of talent. Unfortunately, she also seems to be the human equivalent of a powder keg, with a headstrong and defiant attitude that practically spells trouble. But maybe that kind of fire is exactly what Clarke needs to keep her own fire going. And since she's supposed to be brave this time, Clarke pushes down her doubts and gives fiery Octavia a shot.

At the end of one long week, Clarke has one ruptured drum from Octavia's grand finale, a terrible song stuck in her head from the last auditioning guitarist – and a band she's actually excited to work with. And for all their differences in personality and style, when Clarke makes her newly-cast band come together in her private rehearsal room for the first time, they all just... click.

She has her band. Now it's time for her to figure out what to do with them.

***

 

Marcus suggests playing some of her old songs to get in the groove together, maybe dusting them off a little as they go. But Clarke is straining to go forward, and after playing a few classics together to warm up and get a feel for each other, she gathers her courage and plays them her new songs. 

The response, to her great relief, is unequivocally positive - and reveals quite a bit of her new band members' personalities. Octavia is all tapping feet and gleeful enthusiasm, declaring that Clarke's 'morning-after-song', as Raven has dubbed it for lack of a title, makes her want to "jump someone - in a fun, consensual way, of course!" 

Finn launches right into a series of variations that, while still a little showy for Clarke's taste, have unmistakable potential, and Monty too starts jamming along when she plays the song a second time, coming up with a base riff that dials the song's cheeky, flirtatious tone up to eleven. Nathan on the other hand approaches the issue of new songs from a more strategic standpoint, asking her how she'll tie her two very different songs together and if she's developed some sort of overarching theme for her next album. 

"I... don't know, really. I wanted something new and a little different - I'm not sure if that counts as a theme?"

"Different how?"

"More mature, I guess. Emotionally raw, and varied. I want it to reflect the reality of my existence."

Once again, Clarke is nervous about her new band's reactions. What if they've heard talk like that before, and don't think it'll lead anywhere? Or that she doesn't have the chops to pull it off? 

"So," Octavia leans forward on her drummers' stool to scrutinise her, looking familiar in a way Clarke can't quite put her finger on, "what is the reality of your existence?"

Well. That got very real very fast. 

Clarke quickly deflects. 

"What's the reality of _anyone's_ existence?" 

It's a bit of a cop-out, especially considering her grand plans for an album that shows the "real her". But for all her fame, Clarke is a private person, and everything personal she has revealed over the years has been carefully calculated. 

"Love," Finn suggests, and it may not be the most creative answer, but it turns what threatened to become a very personal conversation into a group brainstorming session.

"Hate." Octavia finishes the dichotomy, and the others quickly follow. 

Joy. Pain. Disappointment. Fear. Triumph. One suggestion follows the other, like salvoes of gunfire slamming back and forth, and by the time they run out of ideas, Clarke is beaming excitedly. 

"Yes. All of those."

Octavia laughs, but Nate (who wants to be called Miller as it turns out) is already one step ahead.

"You'll need to pick one. Which one do you want to do most?"

Clarke falters. She's honestly not sure - she has, after all, spent the last few years carefully avoiding any confrontation with her emotions.

Luckily, Octavia is less easily scared.

"Isn't it obvious? You're planning a comeback, you need a comeback song. Something that shows everyone who ever wrote that your career is dead just how wrong they are."

In the ensuing silence, Clarke is sure one could hear a pin drop. It's not that Octavia is wrong, or for that matter mean-spirited. It's just that, well, as a rule famous pop stars tend not to like the word comeback in reference to their career - they like to think they were never gone, at least not far enough for their career to be called dead.

But Clarke has never been one for the whole diva thing, and this kind of honesty is exactly what she's looking for.

"So, how would I do that?" Clarke asks, and everyone in the room relaxes visibly.

"Easy," Octavia grins, then grabs her drumsticks and jumps back behind the drumset for an improvised, staccato solo, "you make a lot of noise."

And that's exactly what they proceed to do for the rest of the day.

***

 

She doesn't get around to writing immediately, much of her time being occupied with rehearsals, getting to know her new band and seeing what does and doesn't work. When she gives them the weekend off, Clarke has a pretty good feeling about this whole thing. 

What she doesn't have is any new material, even though Octavia's words about the need for a comeback song are still stuck in her head, quietly fermenting.

As great as it is to be practising with her new band, Clarke can't seem to find the necessary emotional place - until she turns on the TV to some sort of celebrity show and looks at her own botched comeback gig. It's been almost two weeks, and yet the show's presenters are still heatedly debating if she'll ever manage to recover from it.

And while the two are gleefully dragging up footage of her old shows to compare, contrast, and decide that she's lost her touch, Clarke gets her guitar and starts throwing out angry chords, every single one a loud, clear "fuck you".

By the time the show presenters have finished dissecting the pictures of her returning home after her wild night and are speculating that a newly established habit of partying and sleeping around has caused her on-stage lapse, Clarke has the bare bones of a song. The image of her in Bellamy's shirt makes her wonder for a moment what he's doing - is he watching trash like this too? Is he, perhaps, wondering if he'll ever hear from her again, or if all his words of encouragement went unheard?

Well, he'll definitely hear from her again, Clarke decides as she sets her iPad up on the mantle so that she's almost perfectly framed by the camera, and so will everyone else.

She doesn't bother with a message or any sort of explanation, just starts belting out the just-finished chorus - which, by the way, is the _only_ thing finished yet. She ends with a sweet smile, then stops the video and doesn't touch it again. No editing, no letting Raven go over it to give the sound a few little tweaks - just _Clarke_ , her guitar, and her new song.

To stop him from having a heart attack, she sends Marcus the video and tells him what she's about to do. He won't like it, she's sure - they've talked about the fact that her impulsive streak and social media don't mix well. But this is one thing she's sure of. And now at least he has some warning so he can make the necessary arrangements to have the song snippet protected before a million covers and rip-offs can pop up. She does not, however, wait for his okay before she tweets the video.

An hour later, she's got several thousand retweets and Miller texts "Guess we've got a new song to practice tomorrow".

Hell yes we do, Clarke texts, and looks forward to tomorrow even more than she already was.

Unfortunately, even hours of practising can't do away with one fact: The song is missing something, and no one can quite put their finger on what it is exactly.

Instead of throwing a tantrum, Clarke does the mature thing, makes them run through the other songs a few times and then lets them go early. But she still can't help but feel a little dejected - she was so excited about the song, and now she's starting to doubt that it will even work for her. Maybe "fuck you"-songs just aren't her style?

True to form, Clarke doesn't allow herself to wallow in self-pity. Instead, she has Marcus book some time at the label's recording studio and tells the others to get there right away. They do have three songs finished and ready to record after all.

Clarke is still busy giving herself a pep talk when the doorbell rings the next morning. A moment later, Octavia is standing in her living-room, holding out her phone with a somewhat sheepish expression.

For one confused moment Clarke wonders if she forgot to text Octavia that they're meeting directly at the studio. But she's pretty sure she alerted everyone, and besides, it's still almost two hours until they're scheduled to start recording.

"Don't be mad..."

Clarke's stomach sinks, a dozen horrifying scenarios running through her head at once. She pushes them down in favour of pointing out that "don't be mad" is pretty much guaranteed to ensure that whatever follows will absolutely make the other person mad. But Octavia continues before she can even open her mouth:

"You were so frustrated when we got stuck on your song last night, so I asked my brother to give it a listen, see if he can come up with something - he writes songs too, and he's pretty good."

Clarke stifles a sigh. If she had a dollar for everyone who told her about their wildly talented brother/boyfriend/cousin twice removed, she could retire from music already. But in this case, it seems like Octavia genuinely believes that her brother can help, and the drummer's trusting expression softens Clarke up long enough for the other woman to hit the play button on her recorder.

And Clarke is completely blown away when she does.

Because clearly, Octavia's brother didn't just give the song a listen - he completely reworked it, and saved it in the process. Some changes to the rhythm, the speed, and the key; a short, angry bridge, and the song has the kind of fire she was trying and failing to find all day yesterday.

The voice, though distorted by the less than stellar sound of Octavia's phone, sounds vaguely familiar, but Clarke can't quite put her finger on why, and honestly, she doesn't really care.

“This is amazing! Holy shit, your brother really knows what he's doing.“

“He has his moments.“ Octavia shrugs modestly, but there's a proud gleam in her eyes. "So, you going to use it?“

“Hell yeah!“ But her vocal agreement was premature, Clarke immediately realizes: as always, she finds that protecting her career and jumping off the deep end don't mix. The smile freezes on her face as she hands back the phone, steels herself, and asks: ”What does he want for it?“

“What?“

“How much for him to waive his rights to the song?“

Octavia reels back, all the excitement draining out of her expression too.

“I don't know... I don't think he _wants_ anything. He just wanted to help!“

“People never just want to help.“ Clarke holds out the phone, although her instinct is to keep holding on to it and not let go until she's got that song all to herself. “We need to get this sorted out before we can use the song.“

“Fine!” Octavia snags the phone back. “I'll call him right now and he can tell you that he doesn't want anything for it.”

“That's sweet, O, but....”

The other girl is already on the phone. But apparently, no one's picking up, and after about a minute of listening to the muted ringing, Octavia hangs up impatiently.

“Well, he's not answering _now_. But I'll tell him he's not getting anything for the song. You'll get your song, I promise!” Octavia's already swinging back, smiling as she grabs Clarke's upper arms to shake her perhaps a little more forcefully than is really necessary. “Now can we start practising it?”

Clarke hesitates, still spooked by the spectre of copyright claims and legal battles. But the lure of playing her shiny new song is getting stronger and stronger, and her fingers are itching to just grab her guitar and get into it. She nods hesitantly, a little scared of her own confidence, and Octavia squeals. 

Clarke quickly holds up a hand to slow her down. “But you're texting Marcus your brother's details so he can send him a waiver. He can get a writer credit and a fair contributor's fee, but he'll have to release the full rights.”

“Done.”

Octavia's earnest, puppy-eyed nod is the last straw for her self-restraint.

One minute later, Clarke is belting out the song, fingers flying over the strings of her guitar, while Octavia improvises a beat on an overturned fruit bowl and a wooden stool. They're making noise alright – so much that her mother comes in at some point, uncharacteristically dishevelled in rumpled pyjamas and sleep-mussed hair.

“What on earth is going on here?”

“I think artists call it “the creative process”,” Octavia grins and almost splits the fruit bowl in half with her drumsticks. “But what do I know – I'm just here for the loud noises.”

Clarke snorts – then startles as her mother's hand lands on her shoulder.

“Need a second guitar for your creative process?”

And before she can say anything, Abby has taken the guitar hung over the fireplace - the legendary flower-painted Gibson that saw Abby Griffin through most of her career, and was supposed to be retired as something approaching a sacred artifact. Today, its peace is being disturbed.

“Oh please, like you even know how to play back-up guitar,” Clarke smirks, a little bit afraid of her own forwardness. But her mother grins back, plops down on the sofa next to her, and elegantly improvises a series of chords that elevates the song to a whole new level of brilliant; creating musical magic right there in her powder blue pyjamas.

They arrive at the studio half an hour late – but with a perfect new song in tow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be twice as long and feature 100% more Bellamy Blake. But apparently, my soul needed another Clarke/Abby moment. Oh well, #sorrynotsorry  
> Also, I'm clearly still a big fan of the friendship that could have been between Clarke and Octavia.


	4. Is that bridge getting built? Are your hands getting filled?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a big one, guys - literally everything is happening in this chapter! (Well, almost.)

Clarke remembers recording new songs as one of the most gruelling parts of her life as a musician: endless repetitions of the same two notes interspersed with hours upon hours of waiting while Raven and the studio's sound engineer Jasper tinker around with he recordings and make her listen to replays of the recording that have been altered so subtly Clarke can barely hear it and is still supposed to give her opinion. It's exhausting, and this time, it's no different. 

But it's also a _lot_ of fun. 

While every one has their individual track recorded, the band hangs out in the adjoining rec room. When Clarke retreats there in  between takes, instead of doing even more voice exercises like she planned to, Monty talks her into playing video games with him and Nathan and Octavia makes her do yoga to loosen up, and getting in front of the mic to do a few takes feels less like a chore and more like jamming around with the band the way they've been doing all week. 

It takes several days to record just the three songs they have so far. But the end result is nothing short of spectacular, and when Marcus stops by with a gigantic bottle of champagne to celebrate with them, he finally says the magic words: 

"Alright, we're releasing the songs as an EP. And we're doing a live concert to kick it off."

The champagne bottle pops and Octavia whoops and Clarke hugs everyone she can get her hands on. This comeback is shaping up to be the best decision she ever made. 

***

 

With a somewhat controllable strategy lined up, Marcus wastes no time in facilitating Clarke's grand return. 

CDs are being pressed, a website for the download set up - and a surprise concert planned. Her first concert in three years, where she'll present their new songs in public for the first time - just the way she wanted to play for so long; on a small stage, with just one spotlight, and her band on a couple of barstools. No pyrotechnics, no back-up dancers, no glitter. Just her and her new songs.

As a compromise for missing out on the ticket sales, Marcus devises a plan to make the whole thing go viral so that downloads of her new EP skyrocket instead: They'll film the live performance and spread the clip on youtube and social media before the songs are officially released to any radio stations, hoping for it to go viral. It's certainly going to _look_ different from any other video she's ever put out. Sure, she's done live videos, but those were all big productions, filmed with high-end camera equipment in sold-out stadiums. For the concert, her film crew will consist of Raven with her video camera, and instead of a sold-out stadium, the handful of people who fit into the Bluebird Café will have no idea she'll be playing. Hopefully, by the time they realise they're watching _the_ Clarke Griffin, they'll have had the opportunity to judge her music on merit alone – and whether or not people like it is out of her hands then.

For all that they decided not to launch a big marketing campaign for her new songs, the project ends up being quite the logistical puzzle anyway. It takes some time to convince Roan, the owner, of the legendary café, to let her play at open mic night – and with good reason: If someone tips off the media or leaks the fact that her first concert in three years is taking place unannounced and for free in a tiny little venue like this, the whole place might be overrun with fans and paparazzi. So, to make sure that doesn't happen, Marcus has discreetly stationed security personnel near the door, paid Roan an advance for any possible damage that might occur in case of a stampede, and threatened her band with immediate termination if any of them let slip where they're playing. 

Still, Clarke doesn't mind the few weeks' wait. As impatient as she is to get back out there, she knows she and the band still have a long way to go until they're synced up enough to go on stage together. They take their time instead, experimenting with old and new hits, with outrageous covers and the occasional flash of an idea for a new song - and, on Marcus' recommendation, they spend some time together without making music - hanging out by the pool, playing video games, ordering outrageous amounts of Sushi, and finally dusting off the bowling balls in the basement, where her Dad had a bowling alley installed that hasn't been used since his death. Clarke is a little afraid of being there at first, but soon her friends' laughter echoes around the cavernous space and Raven and Miller are battling each other over points and Finn is making lame but charming jokes and Clarke is pretty sure her Dad would just be happy the bowling alley is in use again. 

And through all of this, Clarke realises that she's been missing out on a lot more than she thought while spending her teen years as a pop sensation. She's had friends, sure - two, to be precise, and Wells is currently going to college on the other side of the country. But somehow, over the course of a little under two months, Clarke gains not just a new band but a whole new group of friends. It starts with Octavia, who inserts herself into Clarke's life in a way that is so matter-of-fact it is hard to pinpoint and even harder to resist. But soon Octavia comes and goes as she pleases and the others follow suit, until it becomes perfectly normal to see Finn debating the merits of different guitar brands with her mother and Monty making Whiskey sours for everyone, and when Nathan's lease is cancelled because his landlord suddenly claimed the apartment for himself, letting him move into the guest room is the most obvious solution. 

And before Clarke has managed to really take in how much her life has changed, the big night has come around - and Clarke realizes that this will be a concert experience she hasn't had in a long time: Instead of being escorted through throngs of fans by her bodyguards, signing autographs and posing for photos, Clarke and the band sneak in through the side entrance just before they're scheduled to go on stage. Instead of being brushed and painted and glittered by an army of stylists, Clarke puts on some mascara and ties back a few strands of her hair before deciding to put on a hat anyway. A quick check to make sure their instruments are attuned to each other, and they're walking out together - and now, the nervousness hits her. Clarke has to keep herself from clutching Monty's hand, settling for a quick squeeze instead, and is relieved when Monty squeezes back. 

"You'll blow them away, Clarke." 

She can only hope he's right. 

In keeping with the Bluebird audience's reputation for favouring serious, introspective music, they start with the song Clarke wrote about her Dad. They've been playing it a lot during their rehearsals, but it still never fails to make her emotional. 

But for once, she doesn't try to hold back the tide of that emotion. She lets it wash over her, lets it flow straight into her songs, and for a moment she's alone on that stage and her Dad is smiling at her from across the room, nestled in his favourite booth, where they sat when he'd take her here before she could no longer go anywhere without a gaggle of bodyguards. 

Then Octavia and Nathan chime in to provide the rhythm and she's back in the present again, trying to find a way to keep the emotion in her voice without letting it get too thin, and as soon as she's found that magic spot, Clarke just knows she's rocking it - and the completely quiet, attentive audience knows it too. They're making magic happen, just the way her Mom must have more than twenty years ago, when she sat on this very stage and made the owner of the hottest new record company in town fall in love with her. 

Clarke is very fond of the story, and that fondness too seeps into her voice until she's sure everyone in the room can read her every emotion - but then again, that was the point, wasn't it? 

When the last chord fades away, the room is so quiet Clarke can hear her own harsh breathing and the nervous tapping of Finn's foot on the floor.

Then the audience breaks out into thunderous applause.

The rest of the short gig is pure, unmitigated joy. Clarke briefly introduces her band to the audience, then moves on to the "morning-after-song", which soon earns whoops and applause and people trying to sing along without really knowing the words. 

By the time she's finished her comeback song, the message should have come across loud and clear: Clarke Griffin is back. 

***

 

And then, things go from “spectacular” to “disastrous” within the span of one evening – suddenly and without warning, as disasters tend to happen.

After they've returned triumphant from the Bluebird, when the band are busy popping champagne by the pool and Raven is posting the video, Clarke ends up sitting in her hammock in the darkest, quietest corner of the garden with Finn. Beer in hand, she's talking animatedly, excitedly going over every detail of their first performance, taking stock of what went well and what needs improving, when Finn leans closer, cups her cheek, and kisses her.

It's sweet and tentative, surprising but not threatening, and Clarke gives in to the sensation for a few heartbeats. With this particular rush on top of her general feeling of triumph, Clarke feels ready to float away for a moment, quickly getting over her shock at Finn's unexpected move to pull him closer - apparently, the unmitigated success of her return has made her greedy.

Then, her mind slowly catches up with the situation and jumps into action to question why this is happening right now and whether it should be happening at all. Clarke tries to resist her overly cautios mind, tries to tell herself that none of this is a problem, because he's cute and she's single and if ever she deserved to make out with a cute boy, it's tonight.

But her brain insists on ruining the experience by dislodging the one little bit of knowledge that's been buried in the back of her mind: The fact that Raven disclosed, just a week ago, that she slept with Clarke's lead guitarist - and that her best friend was beaming excitedly when she told her. 

Reluctantly, Clarke draws back, takes a deep breath, and asks: “What about Raven?”

Finn's expression remains calm, and for a few hopeful moments, Clarke thinks she must have missed something – maybe things with Raven have already fizzled out, maybe Raven has lost interest and just didn't get around to telling her best friend yet. It seems unlikely, because she and Raven talk about pretty much everything, but Clarke catches herself hoping it's the case anyway.

The thing is, she may not be ready for it, but Clarke finds it hard to resist the idea of having someone in her life like that again. Her last relationship crashed and burned more than a year ago when Lexa chose her acting career over Clarke, and after months of heartbreak, for the first time she's feeling flattered by someone's attention again. Well, not for the _first_ time - technically, her first fling after Lexa was the guy from the bar. But while continuing to see Bellamy felt like this huge, unpredictable risk, fooling around with Finn for a bit could have been a safer option – if it weren't for the fact that apparently, sweet, charming Finn isn't above trying to two-time her and her best friend.

Still, Clarke hopes there's a good explanation.

“Raven and I... It doesn't mean anything. I'm in love with you; have been since the moment we met.”

Clarke feels like someone punched her in the gut.

“So sleeping with my best friend was what, a way to show me how much you “love” me?”

“No! That wasn't... I didn't think I'd have a shot with you. But tonight... come on, we didn't come out here just to talk, did we?”

Clarke feels tears shooting to her eyes as anger and humiliation well up inside her – for herself and for Raven. She wills herself to make them go away, used to hiding her emotions from prying eyes.

“You need to leave. Marcus will arrange for you to get the rest of your payment and send you your stuff.”

“You can't be serious.”

Clarke doesn't take the time to explain. She calmly sets down her beer bottle, gets to her feet, and walks away.

She half-expects Finn to come after her, try and convince her to forgive him. Luckily, he doesn't – she would have lost what little respect she still had for him.

A few minutes later, she watches out of the corner of her eye as Harper, the bodyguard on shift tonight, lets him out the gate to a waiting Uber. Then she throws back the last of her beer and goes looking for Raven. Better to get out the ugly truth now.

***

 

Raven takes the news of Finn's douchebaggery surprisingly well and, to Clarke's great relief, believes her without a shadow of doubt. Luckily, the rest of the band don't leave them alone long enough to start wallowing – instead, they're drafted into the increasingly raucous celebrations by the pool, which at some point even Harper is talked into taking part in.

Beer turns into Tequila turns into Octavia stripping down to her underwear and jumping into the pool and everyone else following suit, and by the time Clarke and Raven fall asleep curled up together on the sofa, the sun is coming up and Finn is forgotten, at least for the moment.

Sadly, it doesn't take long for that to change.

As Marcus points out to her when she tells him about firing her lead guitarist later that day, Finn's departure throws a wrench in their plans. Because, as Marcus predicted, the video of her and the band playing at the Bluebird Café is blowing up, already receiving widespread media attention and raving praise from fans and music critics alike. When, later that afternoon, the official download is released online, her label's website breaks down within minutes.

Obviously, the next step would have been more public performances, live as well as on TV and radio shows – but without a lead guitarist, her band is practically crippled. Instead of going full throttle on her comeback, Clarke is forced to go back to step one and start auditioning for a guitarist again.

“Maybe not,” Octavia says when she explains their predicament to the band, cloaking Finn's real reason for leaving in a vague remark about 'artistic differences'. “I know someone who can come in on such short notice.”

Clarke is tempted to kiss her drummer just for offering a possible way out of their dilemma.

“Who?”

“My brother.”

Clarke can practically feel her face fall, and Octavia smiles apologetically.

“I know, it smacks of nepotism. But it might be quicker than having auditions _again_. I promise, if you don't like him, I won't hold it against you. But... give him a chance maybe? I know he's good. Actually, he's also super annoying, so I wouldn't suggest him if I didn't know he can pull it off.”

Clarke smiles wrily, reluctantly charmed by Octavia as always. Besides, the guy _did_ save her comeback song. Maybe he'll turn out to be some sort of guardian angel for her frail new career. 

“Alright, call him. Tell him to come in and play as soon as he can make it.”

After a short, lively phone call, Octavia announces that her brother can be at the house in an hour, and Clarke goes to inform Marcus to hold off on calling every guitarist he knows, at least until they've given this one a listen.

In all the excitement, it doesn't even occur to her that Octavia never told her her brother's name.

And then the doorbell rings and a dark-haired guy with a banged-up guitar case steps into her rehearsal room, and Clarke thinks with icy realisation that she really, _really_ should have asked.

For the guy standing before her is none other than the singer from her last open mic night, provider of harsh truths and multiple orgasms.

“Hi, I'm Bellamy.” He sets down his guitar-case and turns to Clarke and, _oh boy_ , she forgot about the smile. “I hear you need a guitarist.”

For a second that feels excruciatingly like an eternity, Clarke is frozen in place, staring at the man before her and trying to get her face under control – her emotions she can see to later.

In the end, what she manages to come up with may be a little less friendly than is altogether appropriate, considering he dropped everything to rush out here. But no one seems to notice, and Bellamy simply follows her instructions when she tells him to play something.

What she really wants to do is send him on his way again without so much as letting him play one chord. But that would raise a lot of eyebrows, and that's the last thing she needs right now. There's no question about letting him join the band – she just dodged one bullet on romantic entanglements, she's not going to throw herself in the path of another one. But she has to at least listen to him play one song before she can usher him out without prompting questions and hurting Octavia's feelings. One song it is then, and she almot manages not to roll her eyes when he chooses “Ask me”, their morning-after-song, and winks at her before he starts playing.

Of course he nails it – a poor choice of words, even if she didn't say them out loud – which she knew he would because she's heard him play before. Still, Clarke is determined to kick him out as soon as the song is over.

But before she can say anything, Marcus whistles appreciatively next to her and asks:

“Not bad. Got anything of your own?”

Bellamy immediately launches into one of his own songs, one she remembers from the open mic night, and Marcus looks more smitten by the second. One look around the room shows that he's not the only one: Miller and Monty look duly impressed, Octavia beams proudly, and even her mother, while listening with a straight face, seems much less exasperated than she did when Clarke asked her to come listen to a potential new guitarist because she had to chase the last one off.

This time there's actual applause when he finishes, and before the noise dies down, her mother has pushed a guitar into Clarke's hands and is manhandling her to stand next to Bellamy.

“You absolutely have to play something together. Compatibility is key here.”

Clarke suppresses a sigh when she spots Bellamy's smirk. Not wanting to let this get even more awkward, she asks brusquely:

“Any suggestions?”

His smirk broadens into an actual grin, and Clarke immediately regrets asking him to pick a song. But now it's too late, and he's already playing – a quick, plucky succession of chords that it takes her a moment to recognize. When she does, he's already started singing:

“ _We got married in a fever...”_

It's not exactly a creative choice, but unfortunately, it is one of Clarke's favourite songs. Almost automatically, she falls in on the next line: _“...hotter than a pepper sprout...”_

For all her unhappiness at this whole situation. Clarke has to admit that they do harmonize well on the next lines, and her current mood lends itself well to the song's cheekily belligerent vibe. When she finally gets herself to look at Bellamy halfway through the song, he's genuinely smiling. Before she can stop herself, she smiles back – and suddenly realizes that she is in fact having fun.

“ _Yeah, we're goin' to Jackson, ain't never comin' back.“_

Bellamy finishes the song with a somewhat exaggerated flourish of chords, but of course, she can't blame him for wanting to show off his skills during an audition. And despite her earlier misgivings, singing with him, as awkward as it may have been, has shown her one thing: Bellamy's good, but together with her, he's even better – and so is she.

And before she can overthink the decision, Clarke has turned to him and extended her hand.

“Alright. You're in.“

He takes her hand to shake it and she hears Octavia squeal in the background, but the noise is drowned out by the sudden rush of blood through her head. The moment his skin meets hers, Clarke knows this is most likely going to turn out to be a very, _very_ big mistake. Because as much as she tried not to think of him those past weeks, the second their hands touch, all the memories of that night come rushing back. And if the way he looks at her is any indication, he still remembers it quite clearly as well.

Of course, they'll both have to forget about it, and quickly. Clarke found a new lead guitarist just in time, she's not going to ruin this miracle by getting romantically entangled with him.

“Marcus will send you the contract so you can talk it over with your agent.”

“I don't have an agent.”

“Then have a lawyer look over it so you know it's fair.”

“That won't be...”

“Please. That's the way I handle my business.”

She hopes he gets the hint: They're not lovers anymore and not friends yet. They're business partners, or rather: she's his employer.

Judging by his expression, he understands her meaning very well.

“Alright.”

“Wonderful. Are you staying for a celebratory drink?” It's as close as she'll probably get to apologizing for the way she just reduced their relationship to business, killing off any chance of it growing into something else. But Clarke does not want to risk saying anything too personal while some of the others are still in the room, even though half the band have already trickled out of the rehearsal room, no doubt to celebrate the new addition to their band.

“I can't, my shift at the bar starts in half an hour.”

His voice sounds so different, devoid of its former hint of laughter, that she feels bad for not being able to explain her reasoning to him. But Octavia is watching them, no doubt waiting for them to stop talking so she can congratulate her brother on his new job, and before Clarke can come up with a subtle way to apologize, Raven bursts through the door.

“You have a new lead guitar _already_?”

“You _know_ about it already?”

“Monty texted me. So, who's the person who swept you off your feet?”

Clarke winces at the choice of words, but duly points at Bellamy.

“Bellamy Blake, my new lead guitarist. Bellamy, meet Raven, our resident technical genius.” Bellamy looks confused, so Clarke explains. “She makes our sound.”

A nod of understanding, then Raven and Bellamy shake hands too. Clarke watches them like a hawk looking for any sign that her friend might recognize Bellamy from the open mic night – which, being the smartest person Clarke knows, Raven does immediately. The brunette looks the new band member up and down, then squints at him and says: “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

Clarke can practically feel her heart stuttering to a halt as Raven scrutinises Bellamy, the gears in her head turning to figure out where she's seen him before. Bellamy, for his part, is all clueless innocence, but there's a glint in his eyes that suggests he's enjoying her momentary panic.

“No you don't.” Grabbing Raven's hand, Clarke drags her friend out of the rehearsal room and into the adjacent maintenance room. “Ray, I think there's something off with the sound system in the rehearsal room. Could you have a look at it?” Almost as an afterthought, she pops back out of the room to wave at Bellamy. “I'll see you tomorow for rehearsal, Bellamy.”

Bellamy looks like he's holding back a laugh, but he duly nods before leaving with Octavia by his side.

When Clarke turns around, sighing in relief, Raven is staring at her with a look that clearly says a light just went on in her head, gesturing and pointing at the door.

“That's the guy who sang at the open mic night. The one you didn't come home from. And you're being super weird about him. Does that mean.... ?”

Clarke doesn't wait for her friend to spell it out. “Yes, alright? He's.. y'know. The mystery man. The “Ask Me”-man. The one who convinced me to start writing songs again.”

“With the power of his magic dick.”

Clarke blushes. “I'm not commenting on his dick. And it wasn't just sex, it was... An awakening.”

“Honey, that sounds a little esoteric, even for you.”

“I just mean....” Clarke sighs, struggling for a way to explain it. “When he said I could be so much better if I just allowed myself to sing about what I really feel like... I believed him. He just got it, you know? I'd never met the guy before, but he understood better than anyone else why I was unhappy with the way my comeback was going, and he told me to go for what I really want, so I did.”

Raven nods sagely. “And what you wanted was to bang him.”

“What I wanted was to write new songs, songs that are real and raw and painful and healing, without giving a fuck if they'll sell well.” Raven looks at her silently, one eyebrow cocked, and Clarke relents. “And also to bang him.” Ignoring Raven's triumphant grin, Clarke quickly continues before she can get any ideas: “But there won't be a repeat of that night. It was a one-time thing.”

“What? _Why_? Have you _looked_ at him?!”

Clarke waves her hand dismissively, trying to act as nonchalant as she _should_ feel about this. “Yes, yes, he's cute. But it would make things really awkward.”

“So what's the plan – you both just act like nothing ever happened?”

“Exactly.”

“Because that won't be awkward _at all_.” The sarcasm in Raven's voice is palpable.

“We'll just have to get over ourselves then. I'm getting a new lead guitarist, he's getting his big break – everybody wins. Besides, as soon as he steps on the stage with me, he'll have his pick of hot girls and he'll forget all about our little moment.”

“If you say so.” Clarke can tell Raven is anything but convinced, but she's holding back, and Clarke is thankful. She needs this. She needs a lead guitarist if she wants to use the momentum of her already viral live video, and she needs one _now_. Bellamy is just the first good one at hand.

And he really is _good_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry Finn ended up being such a douche - it's just so very convenient, plot-wise.


	5. There'll be no trace that one was once two

Hiring Bellamy as her new lead guitarist and inofficial muse somehow goes exactly like she planned and very much... not.

At first, it goes so well that she can't help but gloat in front of Raven, who was so sceptical at first. Bellamy seems to have absolutely no hang-ups about their night together – he's casual as you please around her, and he eases into band life like he's always been there, playing video games with Monty, jamming with Miller and riling his sister up until she attacks her drumset with scary ferocity. Most of all, he continues to bring the creative shock that got her writing again – mostly by being intensely critical of everything she writes until she's ready to strangle him.

But as unusual as his methods may be, Clarke can't deny that Bellamy's feedback has some influence on her writing, and that new songs are flowing out of her in no small part due to his presence. Because even when he's not directly involved in the writing process, Bellamy has a knack for saying the exact right thing to make her realise what she wants, and think that she can get it too.

The circumstances of those revelations, however, are a little awkward sometimes.

There's the night a few weeks after he joins the band, for example, when Clarke excuses herself from rehearsing early because she has an idea for a song – an idea, to be honest, that was born months ago, the morning her mother plopped down in her pyjamas and spontaneously played rhythm guitar for her comeback song. That evening, the idea turns into a song, and by the time she emerges from her room again hours later, Clarke has another new song ready to go. What she doesn't know, however, is if it would be a good idea to do the song in the first place.

She wishes she could talk to someone about it, but the house is dark and silent, and a glance at her watch reveals that it's long past midnight – the others have probably left to go home.

She heads down to the kitchen to get a glass of juice before going to bed – and freezes in the doorway as she realises someone's already there. This in itself is not all that unusual: the band have started to consider her house a second home (or, in Miller's case, his actual home) and often stay by to rehearse or jam together, to play video games on the ridiculously gigantic screen in the rec room, or to hang out by the pool. Her Mom doesn't mind, since the inhabits the rooms furthest from the pool and the rehearsal room, and Marcus and Raven already come and go - apparently, her mom's logic is that a few more constant house guests don't make much of a difference. 

Unfortunately, one particular house guest may not be all that easy for Clarke to handle, especially not alone: Bellamy is standing by the fridge, studying the selection of fruit juices her mother likes to keep the fridge stocked with – and he's not wearing much.

In fact, the only things he's wearing are a pair of boxers and a tank top, and Clarke has a sudden flashback to a pretty similar view she enjoyed in Bellamy's apartment not too long ago.

Luckily, Bellamy hears her and turns around before she can completely freeze in place and get caught staring. 

“Up late Princess? I thought you wanted to get your beauty sleep.”

“I've been writing,” she blurts out, brain still too overwhelmed with the whole situation to come up with a smart retort to the beauty sleep thing.

The teasing expression fades from his face, replaced with genuine interest.

“Come up with anything good so far?”

Clarke nods enthusiastically. “I think I have, yes.” Then she remembers why she stopped writing and went in search of someone to talk to in the first place. “I just don't know if it's a good idea to actually do it. Career-wise.”

She wonders if she should leave it at that, then reconsiders. She wanted to talk to someone, she's found someone to talk to in Bellamy – even if he is almost naked.

“I've been thinking of doing a duet with my Mom. We've been playing together a few times recently, and...” she can't help but smile excitedly, “it's been fun. So I figured, why not do it on stage?”

She's on a roll now, laying out the situation for Bellamy, and he is listening intently as he takes out two glasses and pours mango juice into both of them.

“But the thing is, we've always been very careful to downplay my family background. For one thing, there are enough people yammering on about how I would have never made it if my parents weren't who they are. Plus,” she can't resist throwing him a reproachful look, “plenty of people think that my mother is leagues better than me. Which, honestly, of course she is. She's brilliant, and she's been in this business a long time. It shouldn't be a competition in the first place.”

Bellamy wordlessly pushes one of the glasses towards her on the granite countertop, but Clarke is too busy ranting to take it.

“But people insist on turning it into a competition, and singing together would just be inviting those kinds of comparisons, wouldn't it?”

Bellamy ponders the question silently for a moment.

“Let me get this straight. You've got a song you'd like to play with your Mom.”

Clarke nods.

“And you enjoy playing with her.”

Another nod.

“So it seems to me that really, the only people who should have an opinion on whether or not you should do the song are you and your Mom. Have you asked her yet?”

Clarke shakes her head, suddenly embarrassed. Of course, that's what she should have done in the first place. What's the point of agonising over this when her Mom may not even want to do it?

“Then perhaps you should talk to your Mom about it. And if she's in, you do the song. Fuck what people are going to say – they're always talking. You need to stop listening to them and start listening to what you want.”

Bellamy points a finger at her to emphasize his point, face serious, and his earnestness is in such stark contrast to the teasing little jabs he usually reserves for her that it throws her completely. Suddenly, Clarke is back in Bellamy's sun-drenched apartment, with the buzz of a new-born song rushing through her veins and Bellamy promising her a hit with all the trust in the world. And just like that morning, she feels a tug deep within that tells her to kiss him just for believing in her like that - but at the same time, she knows it isn't just about music but about him and her and all the things that could be.... But right now, there's no place in her life for "what could be". 

"That's a good idea, thanks." But her voice is too soft, too weak - instead of closing the topic, it makes her sound like she needs further advice when what she really needs is to get far away from him, and quick. "I'll have to think about it some more, talk it over with Marcus and see what he thinks." 

Bellamy's expression closes off - that's pretty much the exact opposite of what he told her, and they both know it. 

"You do that," he says offhandedly, taking an irritatingly slow sip of his juice that draws her attention to the line of his neck and down to his chest, "it's your career after all." 

He says "career" like it's a dirty word, and Clarke knows that's exactly how he means it. 

And now she gets a little angry, at him and at herself and at this whole ridiculous situation. 

"Yes it is," she spits, makes as if to walk away and then pauses at the last moment. "Oh, and Bellamy? I don't mind you staying with Miller, but maybe don't make yourself quite so comfortable?" She gestures at his very casual outfit, trying hard to sound completely unfazed. "Other people do live here."

"Afraid you won't be able to keep your hands to yourself?"

"Please!" Clarke says in her haughtiest voice and pushes past him to get to the door. 

She doesn't quite make it there. 

"You forgot your juice, Princess." 

She turns around, expression as aloof as she can possibly manage. 

"Maybe I don't want any juice."

Bellamy is not to be deterred. 

"Are you sure?" He grins wolfishly. "Because you seemed a little thirsty just now." 

Clarke doesn't dignify the crude joke with an answer as she walks away. But her face is burning with the truth of his words, and Bellamy's laughter follows her up the stairs. 

That's one point in his favour, it seems - she'll just have to make sure she really is alone the next time she walks around the house at night. And maybe she should draw up some band rules too. First rule: All band members must be dressed appropriately around the house. 

Still, beneath her anger at Bellamy's irritating antics, there's a vague feeling of missing out on something. 

***

 

Meanwhile, “Ask me” keeps topping the charts and Clarke keeps being pulled back into her old life, the familiar whirlwind of TV appearances, interviews, photo shoots and various other stuff that somehow piles up. 

Today, it's an interview with a local TV station.

“So, your new hit is.... different from your old ones.”

“Well, _I'm_ different. My last album came out years ago. It would be a miracle if I hadn't changed at all in that time.”

“Sure, but I think many of your fans were shocked by how... raunchy it is.”

Clarke laughs, a warm and charming sound she's honed during a million interviews like this. “Well, it's not exactly explicit. I'm sure even my younger fans have heard worse. But sure, I guess it's not a song about puppy love anymore. Let me put it like this: I'm growing into my femininity, it's only natural for me to explore things that come with that, and I'm guessing many of my young fans are in the same position. I think, as long as we stay safe and no one gets hurt, there's no harm in having some fun, wouldn't you agree?”

“But shouldn't you be setting a better example? There are fans who listened to you when they were little girls, and now that they're making their first steps out into the world, you're telling them it's okay to sleep around?”

“Actually, I think my fans are very well able to decide for themselves if they're ready to have sex, whether with their boyfriend or their husband or the cute guy – or girl – at the bar. But I think I'm actually setting an excellent example for _boys_ – because I know I have male fans as well, and I love them too, of course. So this goes out to you, boys:” Clarke swivels a little to look directly at the camera, addressing her viewers: “If you've listened to the song, you'll remember the most important thing if you like a girl: Ask her. Ask her if she wants to dance, to kiss, to spend the night. If she does, treat her like a queen, and always make sure she's actually into what you're doing. If she's not – back off. There's plenty of other fish in the sea.” She turns back to look at the host. “So there. I'm not telling anyone to _do_ anything. But if I can teach a few people about the importance of asking first, I think I'm setting a pretty great example.”

When she emerges from the studio to find Octavia waiting to pick her up, the other girl is grinning broadly as she quotes Clarke's words back at her.

“ _Treat her like a queen?_ Hot damn, Clarke, who the hell was your mystery man?”

Clarke can't even look at Octavia when the drummer asks her that question.

“I told you, I'm not going to kiss and tell. Muses are much more useful if there's an air of mystery to them.”

And that's the line she sticks with, even as gossip magazines pull out the photo of her returning home from Bellamy's place in his shirt and start speculating which lucky guy inspired her new hit. But Clarke remains stubbornly silent, Bellamy remains almost insultingly unaffected, and somehow, in the midst of the whole circus, they manage to record almost an entire album.

***

 

“Something's missing” is Miller's verdict after they've all listened to the finished tracks in the order in which Clarke wants to put them on the album, and everyone nods in agreement. 

Octavia smiles apologetically at Clarke, clearly trying to soften the  blow. "Obviously,  _Ask me_ is a great opener, and the rest of the songs still manage to top it. But Miller's right - something is definitely missing from the album.”

And while everyone is still trying to put their finger on what exactly it is, Raven says, very innocently: “Love. It needs a good, proper, make-love-by-candlelight _love_ _song_.”

Clarke nods – Raven is absolutely right. But before she can say so, Bellamy speaks up:

“Something sweet, but sexy.”

“Yes!" Raven agrees excitedly. "Something that packs an emotional punch but also makes you want to take off your clothes.”

Bellamy turns to look at her, an exaggeratedly worried expression on his face. “Hmm, I don't know Princess – think you can rustle up some human emotions for one more song?”

Raven punches him in the arm and Octavia tuts disapprovingly, but Clarke doesn't mind the teasing – she's high on that special kind of euphoria that comes with work well done, and she's ready to get right back and whip up something sweet-but-sexy.

But because inspiration is a fickle mistress, Clarke can't seem to come up with anything, can't even put herself in a mood that is at all suited to writing sweet-but-sexy. Of course, she knows which kind of memory would put her in that mood. After all, her night with Bellamy was pretty much exactly that - and a silly, dangerous part of her wonders if that's what he was thinking of just how.) 

But it feels wrong, somehow, to use that night for inspiration again. It's one thing to integrate his willingly offered feedback into her songs, but another entirely to publicize their intimate moments together like that, turning them into song fodder and, ultimately, money. It would feel like she's somehow exploiting him.

After two uninspired days, Clarke decides to call in reinforcements: Her old friend and trusted songwriter Lincoln has written quite a few of her hits over the years, and when she turns to him and explains the kind of song she needs, Lincoln delivers once again. 

It's a duet, a genius move because this too is something her album is missing. Sure, there's the duet she wrote to sing with her Mom, but despite Bellamy's advice, Clarke hasn't come to a decision on whether or not she wants to do that one yet, and consequently hasn't told her Mom about it either. 

So a duet is most welcome, even though it poses the question of who to sing it with. She's done collaborations with other artists before, but she doesn't feel like working with any of her old colleagues right now. Working with Lincoln was always fun, but he's currently touring around Europe and won't be back for another two months. 

"What about your new lead guitar? I looked him up when you first introduced him - he's got a few songs on soundcloud that aren't bad at all. He could do it." 

Clarke startles, then immediately feels annoyed for not thinking of it herself. Of course Bellamy can do it - she's been more than a little impressed the first time she heard him sing, and the fact that their voices work well together was half the reason she hired him. 

She doesn't allow herself to question if it would be particularly wise to do "sweet-and-sexy" with Bellamy of all people. She needs the song, Lincoln's writing it, and Bellamy shouldn't have a problem singing it with her either, seeing as he's still demonstratively okay with working with her. It's only Clarke who needs to pull herself together and stop lusting after her very talented lead guitarist, and by God, she's going to do that. 

Two days later, Lincoln sends her the sheet music and a recording of the song's lead melody, and as soon as Clarke listens to it, she knows this is going to work. 

She tells the band to come in for rehearsal after they've been given two days off, then calls Bellamy separately to ask if he's up for a duet. 

"Of course I am," is his cocky reply, and Clarke rolls her eyes but she nonetheless looks forward to hearing his thoughts on the new song. 

But when they're all assembled in the rehearsal room and Bellamy starts playing the first lines, his reaction is... underwhelming, to put it mildly. 

“ _If you were the ocean and I was the sun / If the day made me heavy and gravity won / If I was the red and you were the blue / I could just fade into you...“_

As soon as he's through with his first vocal part, Bellamy snorts disdainfully. “What is this, landscape painting for musicians?”

Clarke ignores Bellamy's grumbling and soldiers on, singing the next verse alone as indicated in Lincoln's notes. 

Thankfully, Bellamy's grumbling falls silent when they reach the bridge and he actually focuses on the song, slowly picking up speed as the two voices begin to merge.

“ _In your heart, in your head / in your arms in your bed under your skin / til there’s no way to know where you end and where I begin.”_

Clarke is now fully immersed in the song, her eyes constantly going back and forth between the music sheet and Bellamy, who has another solo verse before they repeat the chorus. She watches Bellamy as he sings, lets his voice wash over her and her every breath and movement sync up with his until it's time to join him for a repeat of the bridge.

It is at this point that Clarke understands just how well Lincoln followed her instructions to make the song both romantic and sexy: The lyrics may be innocuous enough, but the structure of the song is a message in itself; the two voices moving together and apart like two lovers approaching in a dance until they finally melt into each other for a rousing climax.

“ _I wanna melt in I wanna soak through / I only wanna move when you move / I wanna breathe out / when you breathe in then I wanna fade into you...“_

When Clarke looks up after this part, trying to catch her breath before her last solo verse, Bellamy's eyes immediately catch hers and hold on, so dark and intense she can't stop looking and almost misses her cue, catching herself at the last moment to end the song with her quiet, contemplative last verse.

For several long moments after they've finished, there's absolute silence except for Clarke's breathing, then the others erupt in applause.

“That was...” Octavia is fishing for an appropriate metaphor, which Raven supplies:

“Like sex.”

“Ew.” Octavia pulls a face. “That's my brother you're talking about.”

“Y'know, symbolic sex.”

“Nope, doesn't make it any better.”

“Come on guys, it wasn't that...”

Miller promptly cuts off Bellamy's protest: “Yeah dude, it absolutely was. I feel like I need a cigarette right now."

“In a good way,” Monty interjects earnestly. “If anything, it was _super_ romantic sex.”

Bellamy looks progressively more like he's about to have an aneurism, and since Clarke doesn't want to start looking for a lead guitarist _again_ , she quickly steps in.

“You don't have to do it, if you're uncomfortable. I've had plenty of offers to do a duet...”

“I'll do it.” His answer comes a little too quickly, and Clarke wonders smugly just why the idea of her singing the song with someone else bothers him so much. Then she shakes her head to clear it. What a ridiculous notion. It's a great song, and Bellamy would be an idiot not to want his name on it. 

“Well then, let's keep practicing that a few more times so we can record it, alright?”

But the magic won't return for the next rerun of the song, or the next one, or the one after that - there's a tension hanging in the air between them that couldn't be further from what the song is trying to say. 

In the end, Clarke gives up and makes them practice her other songs until Octavia whines about being famished and Clarke can finally look at Bellamy again without blushing - and without being afraid that she'll never be able to look away again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while "Ask me" is fictional, Lincoln's duet is a song from the show Nashville, "Fade into you". We are officially entering songfic territory, it seems, and I regret nothing. (I just really love that song okay?)


End file.
